Chapter 7 When Shadows Speak
Chapter Seven
When Shadows Speak
Peter leaves me to rest, to settle into the room that now belongs to us both.
In a carved wooden dresser, I find clothes. The bottom drawers are filled with men’s items, but the top ones… they’re mine. My undergarments. Socks. A few familiar sweaters. Trousers and tops I’ve worn a hundred times. Even the soft linen dresses I favor in the summer.
I stare for a long moment, unmoving.
All these years, I thought I’d simply been careless—losing things on a grand, mysterious scale. Sometimes I even hoped, foolishly, that it had been Peter. That he still thought of me.
And now I know.
He had been stealing from one wardrobe to fill another. Collecting little fragments of my world and tucking them away in his. The realization stirs a flicker of anger beneath the ache. He’d been with me all along, taking pieces of me like souvenirs, yet never once showing himself.
I dress quickly in one of my summer dresses—a light blue T-shirt style that hangs loosely off my frame—then drift through the room, my fingers grazing the bookshelves carved straight into the bark.
The titles are familiar, fairy tales I once told to Peter and the Lost Boys beneath a canopy of stars.
Grimm’s Fairy Tales. The Tales of Perrault.
A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Some are newer—giving me pause when I realize they’re taken from my own collection back home.
Wuthering Heights. The Secret Garden. Pride and Prejudice.
A worn anthology of Greek myths. A dog-eared romance novel I kept hidden beneath my bed, pages creased at all the best parts.
I try to summon the anger I should feel at his audacity, but it doesn’t come. I’m too tired. Too wrung out. All I can do is sit with the quiet ache of it.
I pull down my leather-bound copy of The Secret Garden and curl up on the window seat, drawing a woolen blanket around me.
The story has always soothed me, something about the way a lonely, prickly girl finds healing in a hidden garden, learning to grow wild and free again.
Outside, Neverland hums like a living thing.
The wind stirs through the massive boughs of the tree-fortress, carrying that familiar sweet scent.
I can hear faint voices somewhere below—laughter, rougher and deeper than I remember. The Lost Boys, grown into men.
My gaze darts nervously towards the door. I want to step outside this room and breathe the wild air again. But fear roots me to the window seat. Everything beyond this threshold feels unknown, Peter’s world remade without me.
So I do what I’ve always done when my world feels too overwhelming.
I read.
I let the words carry me away, if only for a moment, from the chaos twisting through my mind, from the ache and shame and the strange warmth that still lingers between my thighs.
Eventually, my eyes grow heavy. The book slips from my fingers and falls shut, its leather cover whispering against the blanket. Sleep comes quickly, pulling me down into its depths, away from fear, away from Peter, away from the storm of longing that still rages inside my tired, traitorous body.
* * *
I wake to violet streaks of sunset spilling through the window, casting the room in a dusky glow. For a moment, I forget where I am. The softness of the wool enveloping me anchors me back to the present—Neverland. Peter’s room. Our room.
My stomach growls, low and painful. I haven’t eaten since dinner with my family the previous night. My family. They’ve definitely discovered my empty bed by now. My note. I can only wonder at what they’re thinking. Their inevitable worry, and if I never return, their heartbreak.
I shove the thoughts aside. I owe it to myself to see where this goes, even if I’m afraid of the answer.
I glance warily at the door, debating. Should I risk venturing out? A run-in with one of the Lost Boys wouldn’t be ideal—and the thought of crossing paths with Tinker Bell makes my skin crawl. Where had Peter gone?
As if summoned by the thought, the door creaks open. Peter steps inside. His expression is soft—almost gentle. A faint smile tugs at his mouth, deceptively sweet, and my heart skips a beat.
“Would you like to go for a flight?” he asks.
My stomach flutters at the invitation, but it twists painfully, too. “Could we eat as well?” I ask, my voice small.
Peter chuckles, the sound low and warm. “Of course.” He extends a hand.
I hesitate, but when my stomach rumbles again, I grimace and take it. His fingers close around mine, guiding me out of the room and down the winding staircase.
I nearly trip on the uneven wood, catching myself on his shoulder. He steadies me easily, his hand firm at my waist. As we descend, the forest outside the tree-fortress begins to glow—bioluminescent flora lighting the world in blues, greens, and violets.
It’s magical. For a heartbeat, I forget my fears. The world below glows like a dream, and for just a moment, I let myself believe that Neverland hasn’t changed as much as I thought—that maybe the wonder I loved still lives here, waiting for me to remember it.
We step through the archway into the main room, aglow with lanterns.
Peter snatches a folded blanket from a chair, tucks it beneath his arm, and heads for the kitchen.
A cast-iron stove sits nestled against the wall, its surface still warm from an earlier fire.
A small pile of neatly chopped logs rests beside it.
The air smells faintly of smoke and herbs.
Strips of cured meat and fish now hang from the beams above, along with bundles of oregano, thyme, and rosemary.
Peter pulls a woven basket from the cupboard and begins to fill it.
From a lidded clay jar, he lifts a still-warm loaf of bread wrapped in linen.
He gathers berries from a shallow bowl nestled in a cool alcove, then adds curls of smoked meat.
Last, he opens a wooden box lined with beeswax and withdraws a wedge of golden honeycomb that gleams like amber in the light.
My mouth waters just watching him, and I can’t resist stealing a few berries from the pile.
Peter smirks. “Finn’s got quite the green thumb.
Keeps a huge garden out in a nearby meadow.
” He nods toward the fish. “Thorne’s responsible for those—he spends most of his time at sea.
” Then, puffing his chest with boyish pride, he adds, “And you can thank me for the meat.” He jerks his chin toward the bow resting by the door.
I can’t help smiling back. In moments like this—when he isn’t terrifying—he’s almost charming. Almost like young Peter again.
Outside, he presses the blanket and basket into my arms before sweeping me into his. I gasp, clutching the items as the ground drops away. In seconds, we’re soaring above the treetops, gliding through the violet dusk.
I laugh, a breathless sound of wonder slipping free as pure joy floods through me. There truly is nothing more freeing than flying. I only wish I could do it on my own.
The realization settles heavily in my chest. I want to fly on my own. I want the sky to remember me. But I’m afraid—afraid that if I asked him, Peter would only confirm what I already suspect.
That I can’t fly.
That growing up has stripped me of the magic.
That I no longer belong to the sky, or to Neverland, unless he’s beside me.
I glance at his profile, the fading light gilding his hair. He looks relaxed, content even. Probably because everything is going according to his plan. I’ve barely resisted any of his advances—terrifying, aggressive, intoxicating as they were.
He must know. He must see how obsessed I’ve been since the moment I met him. The years I spent hoping, dreaming he’d come back for me. Whispering his name to the stars. Wishing that he’d take me with him, back to this place that should have remained a dream.
And then he did.
He came to my window, grown, dangerous, devastatingly beautiful, and gave me little choice in what he did with me.
And yet… I liked it.
Did I like it because it’s who I am?
Or because he’s Peter Pan?
That’s the question that keeps circling in my mind—and the one I’m not sure I want answered.
He lands softly on a steep cliffside that juts over the lagoon, its rocky edge dusted with moss and threads of glowing lichen. I step forward hesitantly, drawn to the shimmer of water below.
The mermaids lounge along the shore, their opalescent scales catching the last light of day—rippling silver, green, blue. Their laughter drifts upward, lilting, like broken bells. It feels directed at me
A chill snakes down my spine. I remember the last time Peter introduced me to them. They tried to drown me.
When I turn back, he’s already spread the blanket and arranged the food with surprising care.
My stomach growls loudly, insisting I sit and eat.
I sink beside him, too hungry to pretend restraint.
Bread, honey, berries that stain my fingertips red, curls of salted meat—each bite vanishes faster than I can taste it.
We eat in silence. Not tense, exactly, but brittle around the edges. He’d said we had much to discuss, yet I have no intention of being the one to begin. It was in my best interest to feel out his mood first, to tread carefully.
Peter lounges on one arm, legs crossed at the ankle, his sharp profile etched in the fading light.
Copper hair tousled by the wind, lashes casting shadows over high cheekbones.
His nose is straight, patrician, with a slight crook from some long-forgotten brawl, and his mouth—soft-lipped, often smirking—seems carved for ruin.
He really had grown into an unbearably handsome man.
When the food is almost gone, our bellies full, he breaks the silence.
“I’m sure you’ve noticed Neverland is… different. That I’m different.”
I freeze mid-bite, startled that he’s getting right to the point instead of dancing around it like he’s been doing.